


Her Sweet Revenge

by hornblowerfic_archivist



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-03
Updated: 2004-08-03
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:25:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornblowerfic_archivist/pseuds/hornblowerfic_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic set between HH1 and HH2. Basically Horatio goes mad. There's a lot more to it than that actually, but that's the main plot. But it's unfinished, so don't expect much. It's not really a humorous story, or a much of a satire one, but it's got some of each and I had to sort it somewhere.... I also have a lot of original characters but don't worry, they get, uh, *diluted* as the story goes, for the most part, so just wait. It gets better, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Hornblowerfic.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hornblowerfic.com). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [Hornblowerfic.com collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hornblowerfic/profile).

Selected Letters, October 1799

To: The Honble. Mrs. Thomas Fullerton  
From: Acting Lieutenant A. Kennedy of His Majesty’s Ship Indefatigable

My Dear Rosie,

I am most pleased to hear of your wedding to old Tom Fullerton, for he is a most gracious gentleman, as well as a dear childhood friend. One must only remember those halcyon days by Wildwood stream to remember his good spirit and companionship. I wish to offer my sincere congratulations and wishes for a happy future together. I must say, you should keep me better informed of your exploits, for your last letters said nothing of courtship. Unless of course, it was a fortnight’s duration, which, when considering you, seems quite likely.  
I shall send you a wedding gift as soon as I am able, which is sometime later, for at present, I am to dine with Captain Pellew aboard the Syrtis, commanded by a certain Captain Crome. The ship joined our little band just yesterday, where they delivered your letters. (I suppose being married to Crome’s nephew would not have anything to do with such a speedy delivery, but one really cannot be sure in these uncertain times...) This letter will be on its way in the morning, as the Syrtis, quite oddly, is going back to England, only days after leaving her.  
Tonight is a starry night, and heaven’s candles are burning brightly, throwing husbandry to the four winds. I am comforted by the fact that you may be gazing on those same stars this night.

Your affectionate brother,  
Archie

P.S. I had a fine dinner, and it seems that my friend Horatio and I shall be transferred to  
another ship, the 6th rater Ariadne, after we pull into port. That’s perhaps why the Syrtis would be going back, to deliver the news, as she was an intermediary of sorts. Something tells me this is a task the admiralty has not approved of... No, I am not accusing you of more cronyism. We are to report to her after a generous 4 week leave. (!!!) More importantly, that ship herself is in the Downs, so we need not worry about Blackwater being too far away, as we’ll have to travel through Kent anyway. Yes, I am coming home! I am scrawling this quickly, as you can tell, for the ship will be going underway soon and C. promises to have the letters in England with all due speed. It will be the first time I’ve seen you and the family in years. I am much looking forward to it.  
___________________________________________________________________________

To: The Lord Blackwater  
From: Acting Lieutenant A. Kennedy of His Majesty’s Ship Indefatigable

My Dear Brother,  
  
I have received a four week leave upon arrival in Ptsmth, which I will spend at Blackwater. So Rosie married old Tom at last. Didn’t surprise me any. I think she was a bit young for the vows, to tell the truth, (she couldn’t have been out, could she?) but my misgivings are laid down by the truth that the two are a fine match. Just how did she get the E’s approval anyway? I do hope she didn’t sacrifice an arm and a leg and a bone or two. There was something in her letter...something that implied something worse than broken arms and bruises aplenty, which was what Meg got when she tried, and she didn’t even achieve her ends. HE couldn’t have been softening, Meg would have taken her first opportunity. No, something terrible happened there, mark my words. Of course she never mentioned it, she never mentions trouble, it was just in her tone, in the way one can always divine the truth in her correspondence as if it were written in red ink.  
Which brings us to the important question. Where the Hell were you in all of this? Mayhap I judge in haste, but for God’s sake man, you of all people couldn’t have let her run back just for his approval in some hastily agreed upon union. That damned “courtship” couldn’t have lasted less than a month, and from what I know of Tom he would NEVER agree to let Mercy within ten miles of the Manor. It was all her doing, with you not bothering to stop her. She is a heedless creature, you had to have an inkling of what she would have been about to do. That girl can never keep a secret.  
It may be that I am wrong, and I will apologize then, and only when I know the truth. I am in good health, thank you for your concern. I’ve not had a fit since spring. Since I found out he was dead. I’ve nearly come close a few times, most recently a week ago, but things are looking up. I am still alive, after all. Sometimes I question my purpose on Earth, with my ailment and poor luck and such. My ponderings keep me up at night on occasion, at times with an unhappy review of my failures and complete lack of success, and others filled with a brighter light and amazement of my continued existence, despite the hardship. I thank my lucky stars that I’ve had good people, like yourself, to pull me through. Your efforts were not in vain, I am proud to say.  
I must confess, I was in a sad state when I was nearly seized, not long ago. Certainly not as bad as my friend Horatio, the man’s spirits are so low they are coming close to what I was in Spain. Well certainly not that far, (!) but with the likely chance that it could. He hasn’t been the same since the miserable mishap at Muzillac. He is taciturn, and I’m on another ship, unfortunately. Still on the Indy books, but taking a prize home. A thing to be proud of, yes, but marred by the depression of my friend. Trust me, I know what a bored, cheerless, desperate soul is capable of. I am only glad that H. was able to pull me out of it in Spain, and I would like to do the same for him, before it is too late, except I am bloody unable to. I wasn’t the only one who was aware of this sadness of his, as the Captain made sure he was kept fully informed of his progress, or should I say, decline. Incidentally, French ships wandered into our sight, so after we captured them, he decided the best action was to take Lieu. Bracegirdle, another m’man and myself and to put us in command of the captured prizes, leaving H. alone as the only Lieu. on the ship. Apparently, the extra unshared duty would keep his mind occupied, but by looks of him tonight over dinner, it was not enough, and P. looked as if he regretted his decision. He was not alone in that. He and Capt. Crome (our host) conspired to have the two of us shipped over to the Ariadne, another ship, and the plans were announced during the first course. P. says there is plenty to keep one busy, but I am not sure as to what he means. I trust he will explain soon, and that this is a good decision. C. will be leaving soon with this letter and others to take back to the Ari., as well as the good news.  
As of now, the news has somehow leaked below the decks with shocking speed, and I’ve overheard several rumors about this new ship simply while going to my station. According to one rumour, the current Capt. once threw his only hat overboard in a fit of rage, and in one other brief tale I’ve heard, he personally dumped seawater on a sleeping m’man who had problems with punctuality. He then handed him a towel-rag and a cup of coffee, and said he expected to see him on deck in no more than five minutes. I trust P.’s judgement of course, but if these tales turn out to be true, I shall have plenty to write home about, if you know what I mean.  
We will be arriving in Pmouth soon, in a week, as one of our prizes has been a bit damaged by the shot we sent her and has been greatly slowed. Meanwhile, it will not do to have H. mope away his near month of leave. He will be coming to ‘water with me if I have to tie him to a horse; he can’t ride one, that’s certain. He is not yet appraised about his upcoming journey, or of our interesting family situation, but he will be told in time. For if only I had the time, as explaining why you have a title and estate even though you were disowned with the rest of us, among other aspects of Kennedy family history, could take hours. Despite our friendship he knows little about the family, for as you know, it is an unpleasant subject I care not to discuss with the uninitiated. Even H. And of course I’ll find out the truth about that marriage. But-  
I trust you shall do all you can to accommodate him. If you need encouragement, let it be known that I have finally found your match at whist. He is, I daresay, better than you. Beware, H. gives no mercy in that game.  
  
Your Loyal Brother,  
Archie  
____________________________________________________________________________

To: Mr. H. Hornblower  
From: Acting Lieutenant A. Kennedy

Mr Hornblower,

I am a close friend of your son, Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, who I have had the pleasure of serving with on the ships Justinian and the Indefatigable, respectively. He is currently taking rest at my family home, and the reasons of which I feel compelled to inform you of, because I am quite sure he has not. I know of this, as he asked me to post a letter for him at Portsmouth, and while I did not mean to pry, I can only confirm it was hopelessly half truthful.  
He has been in a bad way since last September, after an unfortunate military failure in France. I cannot quite retell the full details, as space prevents me, but he feels responsible for some of the misfortune in that venture. He is wont to feel that way of course, but this incident has quite affected his character, giving him an increasingly dangerous melancholy disposition, which I find most disturbing.  
In addition, he has also recently been plagued with headaches, and from what I gather, he has not quite ever experienced them with such a power and frequency as he does now. Even here, with all his needs attended to, he is greatly affected by them. As of late, he has not nearly been dwelling on past events so much, and his emotions have recovered somewhat, but the aches will not leave him. He never admits to them, but to glance on his countenance would reveal the truth.  
As you are a knowledgeable physician, I was hoping you might prescribe some sort of drug to help alleviate the malady.  
If you should care to send such a reply, or medicines, I should request such not be sent to this address, but rather to His Majesty’s Ship Ariadne, where Lieutenant Hornblower and I shall be stationed. I would also like to request that you mention none of this correspondence to Lieutenant Hornblower, as he surely would not take an “intrusion of his affairs” well.  
  
Regards,  
A. Kennedy

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set between HH1 and HH2. Basically Horatio goes mad. There's a lot more to it than that actually, but that's the main plot. But it's unfinished, so don't expect much. It's not really a humorous story, or a much of a satire one, but it's got some of each and I had to sort it somewhere.... I also have a lot of original characters but don't worry, they get, uh, *diluted* as the story goes, for the most part, so just wait. It gets better, I promise.

“Lloyd, you are dismissed. Do as I said exactly, down to the last word, you hear me?”  
He mumbled something that seemed like an affirmative and left. I didn’t see him leave, though I did hear him shut the door. And only barely at that, for my energies were devoted to preventing my every ounce from jumping up and breaking his bones. My fists were clenched. I was consumed with anger.  
Captain Stoddert cleared his throat, and gave me a few hours (moments, really, but they seemed like hours), to compose myself, which I did until I got to the point where I could look up at him and not want to kill him too.  
“Yorke, understand me man, it is only a temporary arrangement. He’ll be disposed of as soon as I can arrange it.” I could hardly believe my ears but I trusted my reaction.  
“Temporary arrangement?” My fists balled up again and my voice shook. “Temp-Temp-Temporary arrangement? By God I’ll tell you what’ll be temporary if I have to look at him again-” I bit off my protest with the sudden realization that I had been yelling at my Captain. The blush of anger was replaced with the humbling red of embarrassment. I looked down and wanted to smack myself repeatedly.  
“I apologize sir.” I mumbled pitifully.  
Captain Stoddert ran his hands through his greasy brown hair, looking sorely taxed as usual.  
“I wasn’t expecting you to take the news well. It should comfort you to know that Lloyd will be replaced with two very competent men of a high moral caliber.” He shuffled some of the numerous papers on his desk around. So that was why Lloyd was demoted today. To make room for some blokes who knew what their duty was. I couldn’t blame the Captain.  
“Still, do not be insulted if they express disappointment with their new post. It is a step downward from a ship with more guns and reputation and prize money and future prospects.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
He exhaled loudly, as if he had been holding his breath. “So I’ll not be hearing about any discipline problems, am I right Yorke?”  
“Yes, sir, er...no, sir, er, yes!-...um,” What was the correct response to that question? “I’ll, I’ll..be good. Sir.”  
So the old man expected me to have grown disused to having superiors on board, save him. Lloyd, the former acting lieutenant, didn’t count, he was shirking in the wardroom half the time, so there was no one else in my way to the Captain’s quarters, since I was the senior m’man. I spent my days doing my duty, in addition to Lloyd’s, but I didn’t mind. I never had to look at him, and peace was secure. Life was good.  
“I still know how to salute a superior, sir, if you were wondering.”  
“Good.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “How would you deal with Lloyd? If he was in the same room as you, perhaps?” I felt like someone hit me in the gut.  
“I...I don’t know, sir.”  
“Well you had better know! I want a real answer! If you lay a hand on him I’ll have you flogged ‘round the fleet by God!” His coppery green eyes were deadly serious, and it looked like they were bulging out. Not all of his eyes, just the green part, I mean.  
“Even in self defense sir?” As soon as I asked it I regretted it.  
“You would have me believe that he would take the initiative to physically harm you unprovoked?” His voice was dangerously quiet. I had better stop giving stupid answers.  
“No, sir.” Lloyd may have been a worthy fighter but he preferred swindling people and cheating at cards and verbal threats and jeers to moving his limbs. He would only fight in self defense. But he wouldn’t stop there. He could kill you if he wanted to.  
“Well? Tell me what you will do if you see him.”  
I sighed. I had already done this before. “I’ll ignore him to the best of my ability, sir.”  
“You will not attack him in any event whatsoever.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Even if he taunts you.”  
“Yes, sir, even then.”  
“I want your word on it.”  
“You have my word, sir.” Was I not even trustworthy anymore? I gave my word six months ago, and have been faithful to it ever since.  
He rubbed his eyes. “You are a good man Mr. Yorke. I’ll trust you, even though something tells me I shouldn’t.” He quit rubbing his eyes and trained them on me. The green bits stopped bulging, but they looked me up and down, as if searching every corner of my soul for a hint of noncompliance. I tried to look less shaky and querulous, but I dunno if it worked, probably not. Acting ain’t a strong point of mine. Being shaky is.  
“Carry out your duties as usual. You’re dismissed.” as an afterthought he added, “And pass by the wardroom on your way down. Let it be known that I want to see the two of them as soon as it is convenient.” His voice had resumed its normal timbre and he started to examine some of the several dozens of papers covering his desk.  
“Aye aye, sir.” I stood and felt weak as if all my energy had been sapped. I was no longer angry, just tired, drained and exhausted, but the old cogs were still turning, and I quickly formed a desperate plan. I coughed for attention.  
“Yes, Yorke?” His face was hidden behind the documents.  
“I was wondering sir, If I might move into the surgery for as long as he-, er, the situation lasts. Sir.”  
He put the papers down revealing a raised eyebrow, though if someone hale (or not, for that matter) was telling me they wanted to sleep in the surgery I’d raise an eyebrow myself. Or two. Or three, if I had an extra. “An excellent solution, I must say. Are you sure you won’t mind the presence of Robespierre and his suffering patients all hours of the day and night?”  
“I’ll get on fine, sir.”  
“Well, I hope they won’t mind you.” His cursed eyes kept poking around for weaknesses. I had to get out of there. “Permission granted.” He turned back to his paperwork.  
“Thank you, sir.”  
“Keep in mind that I still have your word.”  
“Aye aye, sir.” My legs somehow carried my weight and I nearly fainted as soon as I was outside the room.  
__________________________________________________________________________  
I went down and knocked on the door to the wardroom, after recovering a bit and mustering the strength to walk. I heard a noise resembling “enter” and I went in.  
I was too scared to look around for fear I’d see Lloyd and attack him, but I quickly noted the lack of wheezy breathing and the absence of his things lazily dumped together in the corner. I began to relax a bit.  
“Well?” I looked up. Evidently I had taken too long to divine Lloyd’s presence. I saw two men, one with dark hair and a slightly green shade on his face, looking rather uncomfortable, like he had dyspepsia or something similar. He was wearing a proper Lieutenants uniform, unlike his fair haired fellow who had the standard mid garb like every other officer here. He must be an acting lieutenant, and one not prone to digestive ailments like his companion, for he had a glass of claret and was looking quite genial. I hoped that he would share it, though I knew he never would. My head needed it. I needed it.  
“Captain wishes to see you both sir in his quarters when convenient sir.” I rattled off like an over rehearsed line.  
“Very good, Mr....?” posed Lieutenant Dyspepsia.  
“Yorke, sir.”  
He swallowed and excused me, so I turned to go, but then Claret man spoke up.  
“Wait there Yorke. Perhaps you could answer some questions Mr. Hornblower and I have about this ship.” A name like Hornblower? And afflicted with indigestion? I felt a wave of sympathy for him.  
“Certainly, sir.”  
“It has come to my attention that this wardroom is a bit empty for a ship this size. She does have a full compliment of officers, does she not?”  
I thought for a moment, searching for the best way to formulate my answer, but I decided to go for brief. “No, it doesn’t, sir.” and then silence while Acting Lieutenant Claret sipped his beverage. Hornblower looked impatient. Ooh. Definitely poor digestion.  
“Elaborate, then.”  
“There.....well......you......sirs....are the first leftenants here....in nine months.” I wanted to hurt myself. I really hate it when I can’t even have the semblance of eloquence. Which is most of the time. Unfortunately.  
“We know that already, that is why we are here.” He snapped. “Is there a surgeon on board?”  
“Yes, sir.” And not a very good one, sir.  
“And a master?”  
“No, sir.”  
Claret glanced at Master Dyspepsia and took over. “How long has she been without a master?”  
“I’ve been here a year and I don’t remember ever having a master here, or anyone talking of ones past, sir. We’ve got a Purser, though.” I added, hoping to eliminate a potential question. Hornblower rolled his eyes as if it were obvious. Well pardon me, guvnor...  
“The surgeon, does he not mess here?”  
“Robesp- Mr. Robes keeps to the surgery. He says its because he likes to be closer to his patients but everyone knows its because the Purser makes him uncomfortable.” I bit off whatever I was going to say, you know, trying not to volunteer too much unwanted information. I had a gouty old aunt who would smack me about whenever I talked too much and so I shut up just in case Hornblower was of the same. For sure he wouldn’t smack me, but he’d do other unpleasant things just like people in power do to annoying subordinates.  
“I see.” Claret grinned a bit cheeky like and asked the question everyone has to ask eventually. “Did Captain Stoddert really throw his hat into the sea?” Hornblower threw him a reproachful look which he blissfully ignored.  
I couldn’t help but smile myself. “Yes, sir. We had been chasing this Dutch merchantman for something like two hours before the ship took a quick blast of wind, all she needed to secure her escape. Flew away, she did, out of sight. The Captain stood frozen like for some moments until ripped his hat off without warning and kicked down the deck back and forth until he gave it to ole Davy Jones. It was his only hat though, so he had to borrow mine. Somehow they found some gold paper and we pasted bits of it to the hat so he could resemble a proper Captain.” I pointed to the end tip of it. “You can still see the bits still stuck to it that won’t come off.” The effect was cheap and humorous but it was better than nothing.  
Claret was clearly amused. Hornblower, on the other hand, was in disbelief, his mouth open but silent. It seems he isn’t much for words. “And did he throw water on that midshipman?”  
“Yes, sir. The Captain went on the warpath one day and marched through the ship so everyone followed. It was a grand spectacle. Poor Wilson’s always been on time for everything else ever since. He’s not like that all the time. The Captain, I mean. Just occasionally.” I didn’t want them to think Stoddert was completely daft, he just gets a bit eccentric every so often, like the rest of us. I suppose. We’re all a bit odd, aren’t we?  
“Thank you, Yorke.” He turned to Dyspepsia and asked him if he had any he wanted to ask me and he didn’t, he just swallowed and mumbled out a no.  
Not bad for a pair of superiors. Well, except maybe that Hornblower, maybe he’ll be less unpleasant when he’s recovered. I liked Claret, seemed to be good humored.  
I saluted smartly and left.  
_________________________________________________________________________  
I met Midshipman Philips on the way down. “Where is he? I asked.  
“Who?..!..Oh, him. Not in the berth. They moved his things down for him and then he disappeared.”  
“Good. Come and help me move my things into the sick bay.”  
“The sick bay?” His brown eyes was wide with surprise. As expected.  
“The same.”  
“But Robespierre...No, surely there’s somewhere else you can stay, I mean,” and he emphasized this with his funny northern accent, “Robespierre! Good God, Robespierre!...In a week he’ll be operating on you because you’ve got ten toes!”  
“Maybe. But where else can I go? The heads?”  
He shook his head. “Then sleep with the men.”  
“No I can’t.” He stared at me as I were hopelessly simple. “Taylor.”  
“Oh....I had forgotten about him...”  
“Of course you forgot. The sound of your snoring is almost enough to drown out his singing.” He sniffed all offended like and stayed silent until we got to the berth. See, he’s ashamed of his snoring. Not because its loud, its because it sounds just awful. Wheezy? No, that’s Lloyd, Philips is more like a hinge that’s never been oiled in seven score years. I’d be ashamed of it too, if I snored like that, come to think of it.  
“But wait, you don’t believe-”  
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’ve seen it enough to know that sleep’s more important.”  
“Yes, I suppose. Are you staying there until he goes? What if he never leaves?”  
“If he never leaves I’ll make sure he does. We can’t stay on this truce forever. Either I’ll kill him or he’ll.....he’ll....be killed. By me.”  
“Fine then, but what will you do for meals?”  
“I’ll eat with my division.”  
We got to my hammock. I took down both ends and got it all into a ball, with the blanket inside. I walked over to my seachest and put it on top.  
“Taking everything with you?” He asked unbelievingly.  
“I’ll not be sleeping on something that someone died in. I know what happens when you sleep in the same bed a pox victim slept in. My babe brother got it from sleeping on my dead sister’s bed and he died of it in a week.”  
“No one’s ever had the pox here.” He should know, he’s been here ever since the ship was first commissioned, two years ago.  
“Fine, other things. Like the consumption.”  
“You can’t get the consumption from sleeping in the same bed a victim slept in!”  
“And you would know? You’re no physician.”  
“Neither are you.”  
“I’m not taking any chances.”  
“Still impractical.”  
We both took sides and pulled the chest up, Philips on one end and I on the other.  
“Good God, what do you have in here?” we started on our way, slowly. Very slowly. The chest was more than a touch heavy.  
“The sword I’m going to kill Lloyd with.” I’ve also got contraband. And lead weights in there. But no one knows that, about the lead weights. Or will know it, if I’ve got my way. “Say, I met the new leftenants.”  
“Did you?”  
“Yep. One of them had indigestion, I think.”  
“How unfortunate.”  
“Yes. He was a nasty shade of green and he kept glaring at me.”  
“Hope its not a permanent case. What about the other fellow?”  
“Not bad, seemed like a good sort. As far as officers staying near irritable men are concerned.”  
We made our way to the sick bay without incident, except for that one time we had to go up a ladder and the chest was too damn heavy to send up with only two men. But along came Taylor. A strong, broad fellow and a bit of a strange bird if you ask me, but he’s not a bad fellow when he’s silent and he helped us move the thing up quicker than you can say Jack Robinson. After that, we stumbled about for a bit more, until we got there and could drop our load in the entryway.  
“Thank you Philips. I owe you a favor.”  
“And three shillings. You still haven’t paid me.” he reminded.  
“I know, I’m sorry, you’ll get it soon, I swear.”  
“Really? When? Oh bother, just pay me when you can alright?”  
“Thanks again.” I was penniless. Or an idiot pauper as Lloyd would call me. What I would do for a farthing.  
He looked around the deserted room. “Bloody Hell...” he pointed and looked like he was looking at the devil himself, a devil in a flower frock and boots.  
“What?”  
“Look at that! That right there!”  
He pointed and I looked. It was just a skeleton. Missing a few parts, toes and ribs and such, but still a skeleton. Philips doesn’t come here much, I see. People aren’t too keen to let their dead friends stay here too long, or else Robespierre starts looking for parts for his project. He says it’s a reference tool. I say he’s a lunatic.  
Did I really want to spend my days with some fool who likes to cut people up for fun? I’d rather kill Lloyd and have my old hammock spot back with my self respect and dignity and body and whatnot all together. But I gave my word to the Captain, and if I loose a few organs and pieces here and there, well, that’s the price I’ll pay for holding it true. That’s what you do when your supposed to love the king and his country, even when its been said that your sovereign can’t go all the way up the rigging no more. And besides, murder isn’t too good for your career prospects, but still, but still, but still, I wanted to kill that whoreson. If it’s the last thing I’ll do, I’ll kill him, mark my words.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


	3. I+I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set between HH1 and HH2. Basically Horatio goes mad. There's a lot more to it than that actually, but that's the main plot. But it's unfinished, so don't expect much. It's not really a humorous story, or a much of a satire one, but it's got some of each and I had to sort it somewhere.... I also have a lot of original characters but don't worry, they get, uh, *diluted* as the story goes, for the most part, so just wait. It gets better, I promise.

Stoddert was in his cabin, reviewing the day’s events. He was under a great deal of strain. He could smell the enticing scent of dinner, but it didn’t affect his lack of appetite. He just wanted some coffee. He would have much preferred a glass of scotch but he had to be careful, there wasn’t much of that left, a fact that irritated him to no end. With scotch he could endure anything, and as of yet, he had endured most everything the Admiralty threw at him. Without it, he might as well commit suicide. He had only coffee on his ship, his least favorite drink. He liked tea much, much better, but the very presence of the common leaf seemed to be a bad omen for him. He was a fair and firm captain, he liked to think; indeed, he was. But the one thing he demanded of his men (other than obedience, duty, and trust) was that no tea be brought and held on board, in any form, on pain of privilege loss, flogging, and half rations. He was strict with that rule, and had carried it out more than once and would do it again in a heartbeat, if necessary. No one, other than Stoddert, knew why, but no one dared to ask. He made it clear that it was not something one could question. He explained that to Hornblower and Kennedy, didn’t he? Yes. Good. They were perplexed, of course, but then everyone was.  
Now then, shouldn’t Hornblower have been given teaching duty rather than navigation? He did, after all, pass his exam, and spent the majority of his career outside of prison, unlike Kennedy. But Kennedy knew his material admirably well, a quick impromptu exam revealed as much. He was ready to take his test, and perhaps teaching could help prepare him until one was scheduled. The rest of the Master’s tasks (formerly split between several midshipmen and himself) were divided evenly between the two.  
The midshipmen would finally have some decent lessons. Stoddert himself was incapable of teaching. His stepfather had been the village schoolmaster but Stoddert hadn’t the talent or the patience for it. He went into the navy with the expressed hope that he’d never have to look at spelling rules or red knuckles ever again. How long had the mids been without instruction? Let’s see....past April.....oh, February perhaps. What was that, eight, nine months? That was right, he had left him in Plymouth, right when he had picked up that useless Lloyd.  
Oh, what to do about the fool. He wanted to demote him down to ordinary seaman, but alas, he’d have hell with the Admiralty if he put him down any lower than he currently was, unless he had a very good reason. For that matter, you needed a good reason to demote an acting lieutenant below Senior Petty Officer, and for a reason that good, you might as well have had a courts martial for the unlucky fellow. But Lloyd’s family was in the salt business and had contacts in the Admiralty, and one did not want to incur the wrath of those people, as they hated him enough already. (If that was even possible...) He could try trading him off, just as he came, but no takers. Keep hope alive...  
And besides, what was it between Lloyd and Yorke anyway? The very day of his arrival the two had got themselves embroiled in a intense swordfight that would have been to the death. This was a hatred of personal matters; the other men, while clearly detesting Lloyd for his foul attributes, didn’t have a real problem with him. Of this he was sure. He made it well known that any man with a reasonable issue could come to him, and if there was any, they would come knocking. As of yet, no complaints. Even so....he wished Yorke would come to him with the truth. He tried forcing it out of them, but to no effect.  
Oh, blast it, he could wait no longer. “Andrews, some coffee, if you please........Andrews? Andrews?” He looked up. His steward was absent. He waited for some noise that would stand in for a reply, but none came. He sighed. Was he stupid enough to forget that the man was off eating dinner? Pitiful. He could make the coffee himself, but Andrews would probably bust in halfway through and be cross at him for making a mess and not waiting. An angry steward meant that there would be too much salt in the already saline soup and strange specks in the nearly rotten butter. While irritating, he tried not to mind too much; culinary revenge was one of the few ways he could express himself, being a mute.  
No, he’d wait for the coffee. So, did he explain the potentially volatile situation to Kennedy and Hornblower? Yes, he did. That was taken care of then. Speaking of Hornblower, the lad was a touch green and ill at ease. It had just occurred to him that the boy was ill. If so, he had better send word that he should avoid going to the surgery until absolutely necessary. Mr. Robes, better known as Robespierre, could only treat a handful of ills without committing more harm than good to the patient. He was the worst surgeon Stoddert had ever personally known and probably the worst in the entire navy. But...was he not....seasick? He had all the classic symptoms. Well how silly, he needn’t have worried, no one goes down to the sick bay for simple seasickness, for pride’s sake and the utter brevity of it all.  
Well, what was next? Nothing. He could then have some nice leisure time for himse- Oh. Yes. The dispatches. Those damned dispatches. Those annoying pieces of paper from the Admiralty that usually brought grief and worry to him. He had received them two days ago but had found excuses to ignore them. There was none now. He had no idea as to their contents. They were delivered by lowly courier, and as usual, no bigwig ever thought to discuss their plans with HIM. He thought Commodore Douglas might have considered a meeting with him, but apparently he wasn’t worth the condescension. He leaned over and opened one of the drawers on the side where the bundle had been thrown in. He pulled them out, and slid a calloused finger under the wax and was reading the dispatches in moments. He stopped. And skimmed to the end. He read them again. Slower. He swore.  
No, No, No. Oh, dear God. He couldn’t follow these orders. Was he hallucinating? He smacked his forehead. No, he was not. THEY were deranged, not him.  
What on earth were they trying to do to him? Was his last mission not bad enough that they had to inflict THIS on him? Some Captains might have welcomed these orders but not Stoddert; this would be the death of him. And on THIS ship, it would be a blessed miracle if anyone on board came out of it alive.  
What could he do? He began to think of sedition, curses, guns, and giving those bastards a taste of their own medicine, but he stopped himself. It wasn’t practical in the least. He drummed his fingers on the desk.  
He could gently protest the orders, surely he could do that much. His request would most likely be laughed at, but it was worth a try. But he knew deep down it would be ignored, despite his efforts to ignore the truth. And then what? Active protest? Following those orders was out of the question; therefore a courts martial would be inevitable. And then what? He hadn’t a good reason, (the orders were quite reasonable, albeit unusual, at first glance anyway, but stupidly unfeasible considering his situation. And considering those who would consider his situation, they wouldn’t be considerate at all) or the sympathy of anyone besides Crome and Pellew, (who would probably be far, far, away), unlike the sailors at Spithead. If he was lucky, he’d get the axe and be fined or perhaps even thrown into prison for a spell, if not the more likely noose. And then his wife and babes would be left destitute. What a pathetic end to a pathetic career.  
The door opened and shut quietly. Stoddert didn’t even bother to turn around to face the intruder, he knew who he was.  
“Some coffee, please.”  
The door opened and shut again and that was all he needed to hear. He wanted to bury his head in his hands and wait for the magic beverage to come, hot and bitter, so he could sip it under the stars and pray for mercy, like a defeated man who had already surrendered before the war had even started. He desperately wanted to do it, but he’d kill himself before he’d even try. And so he had to start, with that letter of protest. That desperately useless bit of hope; well, if he was to write it, there wasn’t a moment to spare. He sat down and pulled a clean scrap of paper out from under the mountain of documents and set off to write.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


	4. I+I+I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set between HH1 and HH2. Basically Horatio goes mad. There's a lot more to it than that actually, but that's the main plot. But it's unfinished, so don't expect much. It's not really a humorous story, or a much of a satire one, but it's got some of each and I had to sort it somewhere.... I also have a lot of original characters but don't worry, they get, uh, *diluted* as the story goes, for the most part, so just wait. It gets better, I promise.

Horatio staggered into the wardroom, making a great deal of noise. I gave him a cursory glance, but I had seen it all before and knew what he looked like; haggard, green, and not disposed to conversation. But a little stomach upset on his part was not going to discourage me any.  
“You’re doing a tremendous disservice to the cook, Horatio. He made you a nice welcoming meal and here you are-”  
“Archie, I don’t want to hear it.” His voice meant to be firm but came out weakly thin. “If you can’t stop jabbering, talk about something else.” He then pushed himself off the doorway he had been leaning on and lurched successfully to a chair at the table. Just then, the hand of Thalia rested on my shoulder; inspiration was her gift.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes.” He snapped, irritated.  
“Fine.” I whispered, feigning hurt. “I’ll just shut up. If that pleases you, then so be it.” I turned away and said nothing, and he remained silent as well, for an eternity it seemed. Couldn’t he see I was offended? Or was he in a worse mood than I had estimated? I almost broke in but Horatio finally came in, a little late, if not on cue.  
“I am terribly sorry Archie-”  
“No, no.” I interrupted, still quite pathetically. “I just won’t say a word, if that’s what you want. I was thinking of congratulating you, but.....” I broke off with a dramatic sniff. This was going perfectly.  
“No, I mean......! Congratulations? Whatever for?”  
“I was going to wish you well for becoming first lieutenant, but I’ll just leave that unsaid, seeing as you’re unwilling to even stomach the spoken word, much less anything else...”  
“Archie...I insist, I must apologize.”  
“Alas, our friendship can never be the same again.”  
“Wh...What?”, he spluttered.  
I turned around. “You’re not supposed to say that Horatio. In fact, you’ve made a mess of your last two lines. You can’t just choke on apologies everytime you speak, you know. At little deviation on your behalf might make this a little more interesting.”  
He stared at me helplessly. “Deviation? My last lines? I’m not sure I understand....”  
I gave up. “You don’t need to understand. Let me just compliment you on your new position. Not every 6th month old lieutenant gets to be lord of a ship.”  
He shook his head, though he was somewhat pleased. I could see a smile tugging at the pallid corners of his mouth. “She isn’t much of one.” He looked around the tiny room. He was right. “Besides, you’ve been promoted as well.”  
“A month ago, for pity.”  
“Captain Pellew would never-”  
“Yes, I know!”  
He would not let it drop. “You got promoted because of-”  
“Alright, alright!” I was tired of this silly banter. I cast my eyes around, looking for some way to change the subject, when a bottle of wine caught my eye. “Could you hold a toast to our success? Or shall we do that later?”  
“I might be able to keep it down.” He thought on it for a bit and then nodded.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes.”  
I poured some wine. “Are you still getting those headaches?”  
“Yes. One happens to be plaguing me right now. The first one since I lost all that money to Lord Blackwater that one night...” he groaned at the memory.  
I rolled my eyes. “Please, Horatio, you won back twice the amount the next day.”  
“Only to lose enough to break even.”  
“It could have been worse. Alexander is one of the best whist players in Britain. It’s testament to you skill that he didn’t take your clothes and leave you naked by the roadside.”  
We raised our glasses. “To our success....and may your stomach settle with due speed.”  
I emptied my glass immediately and poured some more while Horatio slowly sipped. Then he slammed his glass down, and grabbed the empty soup tureen.  
____________________________________________________________________________  
A week had passed. Everything had improved, once Horatio got his sea legs and we got used to this new vessel. It was quite small, smaller than the Indy, but not cramped. The midshipmen were a young lot, the men worn but able. There was also no Master, a peg-legged Purser, and a surgeon dubbed Robespierre, who I had not the (mis?)fortune of meeting yet. The purser and the surgeon hated each other with a passion. Apparently, Mr. Pearson, the Purser, had his missing leg cut off by the surgeon. Unfortunately, it was the wrong appendage. On the other hand, the injured leg healed perfectly.  
That wasn’t all in the way of feuds here. The former acting Lieutenant Lloyd was also embroiled in a conflict with Mr. Midshipman Yorke, a jumpy lad Horatio and I had met the night of our arrival. It was unclear as to why they hated each other, even to Captain Stoddert, but it was with a deadly zeal so that the two were kept separate, as far away from each other as could be, with Yorke even volunteering to live in the sick bay with Robespierre.  
Of course, I was more than curious. I talked to Yorke during his watch and he offered no answers. He did get quite excited at the mention of Lloyd’s name, despite a *very* visible attempt to restrain his emotions, which made me quite concerned. It may be that they hate each other for some small reason, but as I know from past experience, there are certain issues best resolved in a timely manner. I did get a good look at Lloyd yesterday, despite his best efforts to disappear into the woodwork. Let it be said, he is generally successful, but no one can avoid the fourth Sunday’s Article of War reading. From what I learned from the midshipmen, he is not much of a bully, but more of a lazy, insulting fool resented for driving Yorke out of the berth. He fit the description perfectly, and as of yet, does not seem to be....shall I say, “a certain threat”, but I will watch that man out of the corner of my eye.  
And to add to all that, we were at anchor, not the best place to let animosity run unchecked. We were waiting for orders, so said the Captain, but if you ask me, it would be in the best interest of the crew if we got underway soon, lest things get ugly.  
But for the moment, I was reading Clarke’s Seamanship, to prepare for the upcoming exam, whenever that might be, but my mind was stubbornly wandering to the green fields and woods of Blackwater, my true home. It didn’t help matters that the text was drier than the ship’s beef, which was so dry you could write a letter on it with ink and quill. It tasted as if it had been at sea since Oliver Cromwell paraded about London as the Lord Protector. It was a bit odd, really, since we were near shore and therefore one would expect better victuals. That wasn’t the worst of it; I could not even break bread with Horatio. Instead, I pounded, jumped on, and threw biscuits to the deck with Horatio. Of course, hard tack is supposed to be hard, but it isn’t supposed to be strong enough to build a house out of the stuff. And it may be just me, but I swear those biscuits taste of clay. Mark my word, I’ve never had food this bad since my days in prison. There, at least, I would not have the risk of breaking a tooth.  
Anyway, I absolutely wanted to be back at Blackwater, under that big oak tree by the stream, and the sun strong but tempered by a sweet gentle breeze, with A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Twelfth Night in tow. Alas, the only big oaks around here were dead planks and masts, I had not a stream but a sea, not a sweet gentle breeze but a salty wind. A Midsummer Night’s Dream? I had Macbeth in my seachest. But I had a sunny afternoon, and even though Macbeth is an odd choice for such a fair day, it was better than skulking ‘tween the decks in stuffy darkness.  
____________________________________________________________________________  
I settled myself on the forecastle and began to read. But I must have been cursed that day, for I could not even do that. After a few futile minutes I closed the book, and shut my eyes and inhaled the scents of rank odor.....salt......and freedom. A good day at sea never lost its charm for me yet. And to hear the sounds of the rigging, the creak of the boards and to feel the sun warming my face, while it and the sea conspired to lull me into drowsiness...‘tis a divine pleasure. I sat there for a few precious minutes, but they felt like long lovely hours. I wanted nothing more. It felt so good to be alive and free, breathing English air and hearing English swears, all without a “Si, senor” or lemon red rag in a hundred miles. A few horrid years in prison will do that to you.  
“There’s a cutter coming right for us.”  
“Two officers in it, what do you reckon they’re coming here for?”  
Officers? My eyes flew open. I got up and looked larboard. A small cutter was coming near, with what looked like two lieutenants. I walked down to the main deck.  
Midshipman Wells, officer of the watch, scratched his forehead. “They’re probably bringing news, I’ll wager.”  
“Hopefully, good news,” chipped in M’man Philips, “like tidings of pay raises and action.”  
“Oh, if only...”  
It came quite close and we could see their....  
“Seachests!” I exclaimed.  
Damn. They were going to stay. There were two of them, but there was barely enough for one more in the wardroom. The second would have to sleep on the dining table unless he wanted to share a bed. Or....I would most likely be relegated back to the midshipmen’s berth.  
They were climbing on board now. One, then two. The first one looked around and spotted the three of us in mid garb and approached. Wells stepped forward.  
“Are you officer of the watch?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Lieutenant Thompson, first lieutenant.” Thompson was a pale fellow, thin, slightly shortish, and assertive.  
The other fellow stepped up, as he was lurking about in the background.  
“Lieutenant Oral Bell, reporting for duty.” Wells looked at him oddly, as did the rest of us. Reporting for duty? Did my ears deceive me? Even odder, Bell was staring through Wells in a queer manner, and he spoke quietly and submissively. His eyes were unfocused, as if he had hit his head a few too many times, something that I’ve seen quite a bit of in the navy. His uniform was illfitting, and with wrinkles and bags under his eyes he looked to be thirty five or so, even though he was probably at least ten years younger. Those blemishes were on the perfect canvas, as Bell was the palest person I had ever seen, almost as pale as an albino man I saw in port one day. He could not have been on a ship so recently. Perhaps he had been ill or assigned to office duty. It seemed impossible to fathom someone spending not so much as a week on duty at sea and still coming out looking whiter than the cliffs of Dover.  
Wells cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, but do you have business with the Captain, sir?”  
“Business with the Captain?! Pfft. This is our new station, did he not tell you?”  
“Pardon, sir?”  
I could hold back no longer. “I am afraid, sir, you are a bit late for the job, if I may say so.”  
He blinked.  
“Acting Lieutenant Kennedy, sir, come aboard a week ago.”  
He chewed on this for a bit. “So the leftenant problem here is solved then?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“A week ago, you say?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
He looked at me suspiciously. “This IS the Ariadne, is this not?”  
“It is, sir.”  
“Hmph.” He turned to Bell. “Did you know the problem was solved here?”  
“No. I had no idea.” He breathed, staring at the deck.  
Thompson exhaled loudly, only to interrupt that by coughing so long and hard his thin frame shook. He cleared his throat. “We had better report to the Captain then, seeing that we were unexpected. It is the prudent thing to do in anycase.”  
“I would be glad to take you to his quarters, sir.” Piped up Philips.  
“Good. Lead the way then.”  
“Aye aye, sir.” And off they went, Philips leading, Thompson tailing closely, and Bell....and Bell..... slowly gazing about expectantly with those unfocused eyes of his, bringing up a rather distant rear.  
“I don’t like this at all.” I said at length.  
Wells regarded me with sympathy. The cozy wardroom quarters were no secret aboard ship. “I do hope this gets settled in your favor, sir, if I may say so.” He muttered quietly. “I don’t like the looks of that Bell fellow, he seems most queer to me.”  
“Thank you.” I said at length. “Carry on, Mr. Wells.” I walked off, but couldn’t help but to take a glance at the sky.  
My sunshine was waning, being replaced with dark gray clouds, formidable and angry. Perfect Macbeth weather. Speaking of which, my volume of said play was still on the forecastle, but would not be if I were to leave it there just a bit longer.  
Was it Bell, or the weather, or just the Scottish play in my head, or a combination of more than one? I wasn’t sure, but I certainly felt in my bones that something wicked this way comes.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


	5. 2+2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set between HH1 and HH2. Basically Horatio goes mad. There's a lot more to it than that actually, but that's the main plot. But it's unfinished, so don't expect much. It's not really a humorous story, or a much of a satire one, but it's got some of each and I had to sort it somewhere.... I also have a lot of original characters but don't worry, they get, uh, *diluted* as the story goes, for the most part, so just wait. It gets better, I promise.

“...It is Mr. Kennedy’s opinion that a few of the midshipmen are half literate, sir.”  
“That’s true, yes. And the ones that can read couldn’t write legibly for their life. Is he going to do anything to remedy the situation?”  
“Yes, sir. He plans to hold a tutoring lesson every other day for half an hour after dinner.”  
“Good, tell him I approve. Now have you heard the-....What is it, Mr. Philips?”  
“There are two....*visitors* here to see you, sir.”  
“Visitors? What kind of visitors?”  
“Two lieutenants, sir.”  
“Oh, tell them to come in then. I’m sure Mr. Hornblower won’t mind, will you? Ah! Have the honor of introducing yourselves, won’t you?”  
“Lieutenant Thompson, sir, first lieutenant, and my companion is Lieutenant....er...what was your name again?”  
“Bell.”  
“Lieutenant Bell, yes.”  
“And what business brings you here?”  
“Well, sir, we’re, erm, perhaps you should read these first.”  
“Oh, dispatches! Always my favorite. Interesting as to how they’d trust vital documents with a mere Lieutenant. Just a joke, you understand. Ole Holloway, eh? The old fool hasn’t died yet, I see. Oh really. Well, I’m afraid there’s a misunderstanding here, what nonsense. Hmm. When the Hell did he become Admiral? Oh, no, oh, no. Now this has to be a jest. Faith, more of these?...Dear God, how can this not be an act of foolery? Bastards! May God damn them! Damn them damn them-AHHHhhhh! Owww!”  
“Are you alright, sir?”  
“Yes, thank you, Hornblower, I’m fine. Bugger all. This’ll make a pretty scar. Lord, does it ever look ghastly.”  
“Shall I summon the surgeon to look at your hand, sir?”  
“The surgeon? Uh, no, it’s just a scratch. Give me the rest of your papers. Personal secretary to Commodore Douglas? I don’t envy your past, Mr. Bell. Mediocre conduct as well. Pfft. I knew they were out to sabotage my good luck, a man can’t ever keep anything good and unspoilt for himself nowadays...no offense intended, Mr. Bell. Hmm....Oh-..Oh dear! Forgive me, I’m bleeding all over your records. Fetch me a rag or something, Hornblower. Thank you. Ach...Oh, could you go and get my steward over here? Devil take me if I know where he is.”  
“Aye aye, sir.”  
“Give me a minute to figure out what to do with you two. It’s against orders to send you back, but still....Mr. Thompson, is there no possible way you can get back to your former station?  
“No, sir. She’s well on her way to Africa by now.”  
“Hard luck. Oh, excellent, Mr. Hornblower. Fix my hand up will you, Andrews? Oh, don’t stare at it like that, do something, I’m getting blood everywhere. What did I just say? Oh, yes, well, you’ll have to- Gah! Damnable...! Pour me out some spirits will you, Hornblower? God, it hurts.”  
“Rum or port, sir?”  
“Whisky. It’s in that cabinet over there, and never mind pouring it out, just give me the bottle. Now I’ll say my piece here to you both while I’ve still got my wits about me. You’ll have to remain here then, since there’s no where else for you to go and I couldn’t get rid of you if I wanted to. There won’t be much to do, since there are too many of you for one small ship, but God save you if I find you taskless. The devil will find work for idle hands to do. Is that understood?”  
“Aye aye, sir.”  
“....sir.”  
“Good. Now, there’s only just enough room for one more in the wardroom, and there’s two of you.....I’ll be damned if I have to send young Kennedy back to the midshipmen’s berth....fine. One of you can get the remaining bed and the other will have to share or sleep wherever you can. First come, first served, never mind seniority. Andrews, get that damn thing away from me. None of you have any tea with you, do you?”  
“.....sir.”  
“No, sir, I’m afraid not, may I ask-??”  
“Good. You are not permitted to have tea here. If I catch you with it, in leaf form or brewed, you’ll loose your privileges, be put on half rations, and get the cat ‘o nine or the cane, depending on how I’m feeling that day.”  
“Sir?”  
“You heard me. You’re dismissed, all of you. Now leave so I can suffer in peace.”  
“Aye aye, sir.”  
“.....sir.”

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


	6. 2+2=5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set between HH1 and HH2. Basically Horatio goes mad. There's a lot more to it than that actually, but that's the main plot. But it's unfinished, so don't expect much. It's not really a humorous story, or a much of a satire one, but it's got some of each and I had to sort it somewhere.... I also have a lot of original characters but don't worry, they get, uh, *diluted* as the story goes, for the most part, so just wait. It gets better, I promise.

“Horatio!” I leapt up from my seat. “What news?”  
I had made my way back to the wardroom, and having caught sight of two seachests in the corner, freshly delivered and wet, I nervously contemplated moving my own until I got the word. I paced for a bit, before resigning myself to sitting nervously in a chair.  
He shrugged. “The Captain made a scene and we have two new messmates.”  
“And?” I added impatiently.  
He looked unconcerned. “And what?”  
“And what?” I nearly choked. “There are two lieutenants. There is one spare bed. I am the junior officer. My fate hangs in the balance.”  
“You’re to stay.” He said plainly.  
“What?” I had longed to hear those words, but they seemed too illusory to be true. I also found his relative lack of concern on my part irritating.  
“You’re to stay here. They’ll have to take it upon themselves to decide which one of them will have to sleep elsewhere. I heard it from the Captain’s own mouth.”  
I exhaled with relief. “You were worried?”  
“Absolutely. I caught sight of them when they came aboard and reported to Wells. I talked to the senior-”  
“Bell was his name?”  
“No, that was Thompson, Bell was the strange one.”  
“Strange can’t begin to describe him. His actions in the Captain’s wardroom were odder than Stoddert’s performance. He was rocking back and forth on his feet, seemingly unable to stand still. I’ll tell you, I couldn’t look at him too long for fear that I’d get seasick again. He never talked but once, mumbling all other times.”  
“He looks as if he’s never been whipped by a strong sea breeze.”  
“He hasn’t, from what I heard. He was the former secretary of Commodore Douglas.” The commander of our squadron. Horatio shook his head and continued. “And a bad secretary. Mediocre conduct. They were transferred here on orders of the Admiralty, and by God, Archie, when the Captain found out....”  
“Did he think that they were dumped here just to get rid of them?”  
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”  
“So what did he do?”  
Horatio opened his mouth, but we turned out attention to the sound of the door opening. Thompson came in with two men. He stood and briefly surveyed the place; his face betrayed nothing. He then caught sight of the seachests.  
“Get that one down to him, wherever he is.” He pointed to an old, beaten trunk that looked as if it had been formerly used to store paint, with dirty red and blue splotches scattered over it. The two men carried it out and left. Thompson pulled up a chair.  
Upon closer inspection, it was revealed that he was quite pale, certainly not so like Bell, but enough so that he looked as if he were recovering (or suffering) from some sort of illness - an illness probably related to his shaking cough, as the spasms that gripped him shook him like a thin piece of paper, displaying his frailty. I suppressed a notion that suggested the service had been getting its share of cannon fodder as of late - I myself might be included in that grouping.  
He turned to Horatio, and asked the expected question. “What was the date of your commission?”  
“August ‘97.”  
His eyebrows flew up. “August ‘97? Really? What day?”  
“Day?” He groped about for an answer. “I....believe it was the sixteenth, sir.”  
Thompson chuckled to himself for a bit, before grinning a toothy smile.  
“You shan’t believe this. I was commissioned just one day earlier than you. The fifteenth.” Horatio’s jaw dropped.“I remain first lieutenant by the space of a day.” Thompson smiled to himself and I joined in the laughter. Demoted by a near coincidence. Highly amusing, if anything. (I must admit, I somehow could not feel very sorry for Horatio.)  
“I envy your luck, sir.” Horatio muttered as begrudgingly as he could without being too bitter or resentful.  
“So, what happened in there with the Captain?” I asked. I was wondering what he did. I imagined him ecstatically leaping atop his desk, tossing his papers in the air, like the E’s old clerk when he announced his resignation.  
“He picked up an empty glass and smashed it into his desk continuously, pounding the pieces into his hand.”, said Horatio.  
“Oooh.” That couldn’t have been pretty. Well, pretty painful, perhaps...  
“He got a fair amount deeply embedded.” he continued. “It’ll take a long time to pick all the pieces out.”  
“I certainly wasn’t expecting that. I could barely believe my eyes. I’ve never heard of such antics.” said Thompson, with a hint of disbelief still in his voice and glinting up his eyes.  
“Well, sir,” I cut in, “I may venture a guess you haven’t heard of his various exploits. They’re popular gossip on most ships.”  
“Why, what has he done?”  
___________________________________________________________________________  
I couldn’t sleep. I really tried, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t the soul stealing creepiness of Bell, or the agitation from the usual self doubt I’ve been experiencing less and less of, nor was it the remembrance of certain past miseries, but Thompson’s damn coughing. That, coupled with the duet of the virtuoso and troubadour in the berth deck meant that I would be forced to enjoy the show for hours yet.  
I stared into the darkness for a bit, but that got tiresome, but not enough to actually tire me any. Was that ten minutes gone? An hour? No. Sleep hath not taken me yet.  
“Archie.” I rolled over to see Horatio staring at me.  
“Can’t sleep either?” I whispered.  
“No. I doubt anyone can.”  
We spoke in subdued tones, but there was little chance of Thompson hearing whilst in his slumber. Horatio and I shared a cabin, and Thompson had himself his own, a very small and cramped affair that was squeezed in by a miracle. (Thanks to goodness that the surgeon didn’t also sleep here as well, or else there would have been no room at all.) His space was also quite drafty and wet, and not at all a good place for someone with a respiratory ailment.  
“How long have you been up?”  
“I don’t know, I’ve been in and out of sleep all night. But that doesn’t matter, I’ve got the next watch. I can always take a nap later.”  
“I’ll take your watch, if you don’t mind. I can’t sleep a wink. I’m not the least bit drowsy.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes. You’ve had a hard day, get what little rest you can. What time is it?”  
At this moment, the bells chose to go off - one, two, three,....six, seven, eight bells, all’s well.  
“There’s the answer to that question!” I rolled out of bed and threw my clothes on.  
____________________________________________________________________________  
The lone bell rang out again, and my replacement dashed out amongst the exchange to greet me. It was still dark; the watch uneventful, the night was soundless, the noisemakers had gradually faded out, leaving naught but the sound of the sea. They sky was high and clear. And I became sleepy. All was right with the world, as it should be.  
“Good morning, Wells.”  
“Morning, sir. I’ve got Mr. Philips’s watch.” A small figure mumbled drowsily.  
“Where’s Mr. Hornblower?”  
“I’ve taken his duty. This must be a night for wheeling and dealing. You’ve had a restful night, I’m sure.”  
He snorted. “If you asked Philips that you’d get a positive answer. He’s the only one who can sleep through all of this. I’m sure you’ve heard him. He makes the squeak noises - that’s him snoring.”  
Dear God! Could such an unhuman sound come from such an insignificant lad?  
“Is there anyway to quiet him?”  
“None, sir, and we’ve tried everything. One time Mr. Yorke nearly smothered him with a pillow and it still didn’t work. He just woke up with a mouthful of feathers because the bloody seams burst. But he don’t do it every night though, so we’re thankful for that. Unlike Taylor. He’ll be going off for a while.”  
“Is Taylor the prodigious singer?”  
“Yes, sir. He gets spells, spells where he can’t shut up, day or night until he drops half-dead from exhaustion. He can’t help it either. Once it gets him....its got him. He’ll be useless for another few days.”  
“He’s silent now.”  
“Yes, but he’ll be up again soon as he comes to. He’s probably kippin’ for a bit. There ain’t nothing that can be done for him. Robespierre’s tried everything. Bleedin’ him just makes him scream. Laudanum makes him ill, real ill. Spirits make him worse. Sometimes he goes insane too.”  
“Insane?”  
“Yes, sir. Not like the captain. For him its just temporary, and he’s not really mad then, a temper he’s got, more like. But Taylor, he’s a character. Like right now, he’s singing and carrying on, but soon, he’ll start rabbiting on about pies and sheep and if he goes farther, he’ll start talking to God like he’s having a conversation with him in the head. That’s usually it, most of the time. But if he’s going all the way, he’ll start screamin’ at people that aren’t there. Once he started dancing, dancing something fierce. I’ve seen natives in the Pacific dance up a storm and it don’t hold a candle to what he can do. Hollering and shaking and spitting, it was like he was having a fit. He kept saying that the angel made him move. But he’ll gradually recover, though. He always does.  
Having a fit? “How often do these episodes occur?”  
“Oh, ‘bout a few times a year, says Mr. Philips, but I’ve only been here since last July, and he’s had two episodes but went completely gone only once.” I heard a hint of disappointment in his voice.  
“The men....don’t they seek to shut him up?”  
“Yes, and we all want to as well, but no one dares lay a finger on him. You see, he’s got.....the power.”  
That last statement was one of the more stupidly contrived lines I’ve ever heard out of an honest person......As if I was going to believe that.  
“The power? The power to sing someone to death?”  
“Aye, sir! Er, something like that. I warn’t there to see it, but everyone knows.” He dropped his voice down to a nearly imperceptible whisper. “He killed a man just by staring at him.”  
I decided to eat my thoughts. That was THE most ludicrous statement ever.  
“Go on.”  
“Oh, right. Well, Old Robespierre didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what else to say so he finally announced that the cause of death was natural causes.”  
“How do you know it wasn’t?” Wells’ purely sincere voice made it near impossible to keep from laughing. A man killed by staring? Another story for my sister Rosie....  
“Well, most everyone I know asserts that it certainly isn’t the case, if you know what I mean.” He nodded sagely, agreeing with his own words.  
“Yes, I do.” The sounds of Taylor’s singing started up again. Loud, nonsensical banter.  
“See, sir?”  
“I do. I shouldn’t have traded watches with Mr. Hornblower.”  
_____________________________________________________________________________  
I got back to bed and threw myself down, fully clothed. Horatio did not stir; he was sound asleep. So was Thompson. Lloyd had gotten quiet again. His outburst was a brief one. Philips, while still active, was somewhat quieter and muffled, as if someone had made an effort to silence him. I wanted to sleep, my tired body wanted to sleep, but Wells’ story blocked the way. The Power? What was he then, a warlock? It must have been a tale fed to innocent Wells. He reminded me of Oldroyd sometimes, in the way he absorbed the most outlandish stories without question.  
Damn him. Taylor was singing again. Gibberish, it seemed, but the more I thought on it, a coherent, yet incomprehensible line and chorus emerged. I sang the tune out a bit, to make better sense of it.  
“Archie.....” Moaned Horatio pitifully.  
“Sorry Horatio, I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
My tone wasn’t apologetic enough. He pulled his blanket down and glared red hot piercing daggers at me. I rolled over, but I could still feel them pricking my back.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


	7. Six Sixty Sigh......................................................

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set between HH1 and HH2. Basically Horatio goes mad. There's a lot more to it than that actually, but that's the main plot. But it's unfinished, so don't expect much. It's not really a humorous story, or a much of a satire one, but it's got some of each and I had to sort it somewhere.... I also have a lot of original characters but don't worry, they get, uh, *diluted* as the story goes, for the most part, so just wait. It gets better, I promise.

Silence overcame the men. It was pitch dark, but their eyes were wide open, trying to see what their ears revealed and if it could be believed. Several jaws hovered near the deck, - those that had not hit bottom already, at least for the men who understood the implications of such an act, anyway.  
Someone from the back lit a lantern and they passed it forward to the front of the gathered circle.  
“Hand it here.” The scene was illuminated. A gasp flittered though the crowd. Taylor, the prodigious singer/songwriter was sprawled flat on the deck unconscious. A nice black shiner was developing on his forehead.  
“Lord have mercy.”  
“Amen to that.”  
“Faith to God! Does ‘e know what ‘e did?!”  
Oldroyd didn’t, and he was sure the attacker didn’t either. “Why’s everyone either prayin’ and crossin’ themselves?” He whispered to Matthews.  
“Dunno, but Styles got in a sure pickle this time.”  
The light up front was grabbed from its holder.  
“Oi! Be careful wif that, ye careless twit.”  
“Never you mind.” Styles held the light on himself, commanding immediate attention. “I did’ye all a bloody favor, and ‘ere you go as if I’m a feckin witch. Now wot’s all this tsk tskin’ about? Afraid I’ll punch yer lights out as well? Never seen a real man before?”  
No one dared move. Matthews was disturbed.  
He stood and joined Styles. “Come on now, explain all this prayin’ and fear over a rabid fool who done got what ‘e deserved. What’s ‘e going to do when ‘e wakes up?”  
The murmurs started up again.  
“Tell us wot all the fuss is about.” Styles demanded. The men became silent again, as if to spite him. He turned to Matthews and muttered loudly, “Like a bunch of babes, going on like we’re the next flyin’ dutchman.”  
“We could be, ye never know.” someone grunted.  
“Aye.”  
“Better hope he doesn’t remember his beatin’, cause if he does, we’d all better jump ship like a bunch o’ rats from a doomed vessel.”  
“Who said that?!” Matthews demanded.  
“‘Tis I, McGinnis.” Styles passed the lantern off until it illuminated a dark corner of the berth deck, far from the rough circle. A scruffy man lay in his hammock, gazing at the scene with dry satisfaction. “You all don’t know?”  
“Know what?” Styles growled.  
“The dark side o’ Taylor.” McGinnis rolled out from his hammock and leaned on a post. “He’s got powers, but he ain’t no messiah.”  
“So wot is ‘e? A demon?”  
“To Hell if I know. No one else ‘ere kens either. It doesn’t matter what he is if he kin just kill ye by lookin’ at ye.”  
“Kill by what?”  
“Gazin’ at yer. If ye’d ever looked at his eyes ye’d understand.”  
“If ‘e could kill by lookin’ wouldn’t you think ‘ed be Admiral of the Fleet by now?”  
“’Tis the truth Styles, I swear it on t’ Holy Bible!”  
“Aye! I’ve seen ‘im do it!” Someone shouted. “‘E killed the bosun!” several others voiced their agreement.  
Matthews was about to cut in, but at this moment Taylor rolled over in gentle slumber. The men at the front of the deck drew back in horror.  
“Bejesus! ‘e moved!”  
“Pass that lantern for’rard!” It quickly worked its way up and Oldroyd held it over Taylor.  
“He was on his back, but now he’s on his side!” A voice shouted in terror. The hubbub was hushed and scared. Matthews observed that it would soon break up into a full panic if it were allowed to build up, which it would, in no long while. Some of the men to the back were beginning to edge away to the exits. There was fear in their eyes. A man to the side produced a tropical machete and brandished it menacingly. The reflected light flashed ominously though the dark space. He didn’t want to know what the men would do if they got loose - he’d heard too many tales to treat the matter lightly.  
“Silence, now.” His stern warning diffused the sentiment, bringing the men back to their senses. A few loudly exhaled. “Get back to sleep now. Argue about ‘is eyes in the morning when ye can see them at yer own peril. Get some sleep and worry about it in the daylight after some rest.” he ordered.  
No one moved...much. There was a loud scuffle to the back and they merely turned around to face the loud, unknowing intruder - an officer.  
“What’s all this? Where’s the damned casualty? Was it Taylor? Did someone finally shut him up? Seems so, it’s a right quiet mob.” A youth in disheveled midshipman’s garb waded though the men, followed by two equally untidy loblolly boys. McGinnis joined them on the way up front.  
“Him?” The m’man pointed to Taylor. “What happened to the old git?”  
Silence.  
“Own up to it, some man did something, unless he fell out of his hammock or something stupid like that.”  
“I did it, sir.” Styles muttered, eyes down.  
“You? What’s your name?”  
“Styles, sir.”  
The midshipman smiled and gave him a friendly thump on the back.  
“Good man, Styles! You deserve an award! For exemptarary service, or whatever they call it.”  
Styles was shocked by the jovial outburst, and so were most of the gathered, with their mouths hanging open for the nth time so far.  
“Er....yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”  
The officer turned to the loblolly boys.  
“Here, let’s get the bastard up.” he said, bending down to pick up the head. “ The faster ole Robespierre’s experimentin’ with him the faster we’re all asleep. Lively now boys, more lively, quicker, you’re almost dead, get moving already, the sun’s risin’-!”  
“Mr. Yorke, sir!” spoke McGinnis. “Might I help?”  
“I’d never say no. Take that leg or both if you want. Up now!” He awkwardly twisted his head to address the crowd. “Awright, when I get back, you all’ll be in bed lights out or you’ll all pay.”  
No reaction.  
“I’ll tell Taylor it was a conspiracy amongst you all if you don’t.” He snarled.  
Oldroyd wasted no time in blowing out the lantern, putting them all in the dark.  
“That’s better. Let’s get this corpse out of here.”  
The foursome picked up the body and walked it out. Well, TRIED to walk it out would be a better way to phrase it. It was an unbalanced load, with the two loblolly boys (who were really boys, the oldest being ten, and both quite small for their ages) barely holding their one leg up while Yorke held the head up by holding onto Taylor’s hair.  
“You might want to hold onto him from the shoulders, sir.” Advised McGinnis, who held the other leg.  
“That’s awright. I got a good grip on his hair. Are you sure you won’t take that other leg? Them boys can’t hold it up even to yours.”  
“They need experience. It’ll be good for them....Sir! Look out!”  
Yorke looked around. “For what?”  
“Behind-!....you.” Yorke had walked backwards into a hammock.  
“Ach. Thanks for that.” McGinnis offered his spare hand and helped him up. “Ooh! Look, there’s blood!”  
“Seems like it’s from Taylor. His ‘ead must ‘ave hit the deck hard.”  
“Oh.” He patted Taylor’s head, with a large cut on one side. “Sorry old mate.”  
They picked up Taylor and started again, but they had not gone more than a few steps before Yorke lost grip on the hair and dropped him head first again.  
“Damn. Greasy hair and blood ain’t conducive to this job, eh? It’ll have to be the shoulders, then.”  
“Look alive, sir. The steps are coming up.”  
“Steps? Oh. Oh! How the hell are we going to get him up that?”  
___________________________________________________________________________  
All was silent again. Most were asleep, despite the supposed unknown, upcoming doom on the horizon. Except for Oldroyd. His imagination was too wide to let this one alone. And Styles and Matthews. And also an unnamed, recent arrival in the back, only recently awakened, pondering on the past developments.  
“Tis a damned fairy story, that’s all.” Muttered Styles.  
“And I’m inclined to agree with you, but when all of the men are scared witless there’s something up!....Probably just tired and drunk-”  
“Somethin’ up? There’s somethin’ else.”  
“Like what?”  
“Look around you. This ‘ere’s near a bleedin’ sloop almost, she ain’t fit for no so-called post Captain, never mind commander. There ain’t no bosun, no master, no lieutenants here until last week, and now we’ve got too many, worst bloody food in my life, a crew that’s afraid of an eejit that can’t shut up....”  
“But would Captain Pellew really send us ‘ere with ‘ornblower and Kennedy if it was such a bad place?”  
“What would the Captain know? ‘e’s never been ‘ere, e’s never et our rations. Mark me, there’s somethin’ wrong ‘ere, somethin’ more than a ravin’ madman.”

A sentiment not shared by our observer in the back.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


End file.
